


Paper Birds

by dearsiegfried



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, F/M, Malfoy Manor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 22:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5802229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearsiegfried/pseuds/dearsiegfried
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione makes a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Birds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanctimoniav](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanctimoniav/gifts).



The first time you see him since that day is when you realize just how much your limbs and your spark have slowed to a sluggish march.

You look down at your calloused hands and outspread books, your optimism locked behind your tongue. You have stopped running, but you still haven’t shaken the displacement in your heart. You think this as you slip the black dress over your head and arms, mind lost in thought as your hands snake through your robe’s sleeves. Your eyes regard yourself in the mirror, but they do not see through the haze.

Later, when you find yourself before the steps of Hogwarts, climbing up them feels like tar. You clench at your stomach, dreading the feelings that await you.

It is in the corridor before the Great Hall that you see him. He is hunched and much too pallid and out of place standing next to his equally silent mother. You didn’t expect to see them here; it didn’t seem in their nature. A dark thought crosses your mind that they are only here for show, but then you catch a glimpse of his eyes, and you remember a fire. You think to say something out of camaraderie— as a fellow student that _survived_ — but he avoids your stare when you approach and you change your mind, leaving them under the archway.

You are not surprised by the waves of emptiness that fill you as you enter the Great Hall. The tables are lined up neatly and all traces of damage have been removed. But you know better. They all knew better.

You slide into the gap on the bench between your two best friends. You’ve seen them many times since then, but they still embrace you—long and slow and warm. You are not the only one that feels the cold.

He finally enters with Narcissa, and shortly after, the memorial service begins. It is long and stories are shared. Each person present weaves a wreath with a flower of their choice. You choose gladioli. Harry chooses white lilies, and you both help Ron with his pink carnations when he becomes motionless. As each wreathe is levitated high above the candles’ reach, you think about your first day at school.

You catch the Malfoys from the corner of your eye and see their wreath embraced by tea roses. It joins the others, and you all watch them hover, standing in silence. Soon, shuffling resumes and the tension is lifted as preparations are made for the food.

Dennis Creevey approaches the new headmistress. He is still so young, and no one has the heart to deny him when he asks to take a reunion photo with his brother’s muggle camera before the banquet's start. Reluctantly, the group treads towards the nearest staircase and begins forming rows.

By chance, he ends up standing near you, and you glance at him, your head held forward, while you think he isn’t looking. It takes you a few moments before you realize he is looking too, and your eyes dart back to Creevey’s feet. You pause then take one more look and see Narcissa Malfoy standing next to him, hand sliding into his and tightening, tightening— not letting go for a second. You wonder what this moment might mean to this woman, but once you notice the tremor vibrating through her fingers into her son’s hands, your curiosity is stilled and you find it difficult to look the Malfoy matriarch in the face for the rest of the afternoon.

The photo doesn’t take long. First you hear the countdown, and then the resounding release of held breaths around you as everyone returns to the Great Hall.

Later on, when the banquet has begun, you laugh at Harry’s mistimed joke and knock a stick of butter onto your shoe. You think no one notices, but you hear the hoarsest of laughs behind you—so hoarse that you question if it was a laugh at all. You glance about you and only see the retreating form of the youngest Malfoy. You decide you imagined it and return your attention to your plate, distracting yourself with friends.

 _Would you like a photo, Hermione?_ You twist your neck around to see that Dennis has already duplicated the instant photograph with a spell and holds a copy from his stack towards your arm. You chew on your lip, instinctively inching away, but his eyes are so expectant.

 _Of course_ , you say. And you take it, fingers hesitating, from his outstretched hand.

When you sit in front of your floor mirror, photograph in your lap, your mind notices. You all look so haggard, like you’ve crawled from your tombs yet found no joy in your escape.

You also notice what the photo doesn’t let you see. It doesn’t show the tremor in Narcissa’s hand, nor the inquisitive look you gave the mother and son before turning towards the camera. It does not show your growing relief to be there, to even be allowed to feel tired. It does not show that after the camera flashed, you rubbed your eyes and let out a shaky breath, and that he glanced at you, just seconds too long, and that you had noticed and didn’t mind.

You still wonder if you should have declined the photo. Instead, you pull out the bottom drawer of your dresser, slipping that fragile, glossy snapshot into the dark space underneath.

It is not until you are well into your second year at the firm that you see him again.

You often eat alone on the balcony of the fourth floor. You enjoy the breeze and peace you gain from the solitude.

But today, you see someone leaning on the railing on the far side of the landing. It only takes you a second to recognize that familiar blond hue of hair. You shift from foot to foot, lunch bag clutched in your fingers, but you decide this was _your_ spot first, and settle into the only table there. You’re aware his head turns toward you when you clunk your lunch down. You do not look as you poke and nibble at your spinach salad, and he does not leave.

You ask around and deduce that outside of work-related issues, he doesn’t talk to anyone. _If I may be so bold_ , one colleague points out, _you don’t either._ You promise to make more of an effort.

You don’t.

It stays this way for weeks, spotting him on the balcony and neither of you making an effort towards friendly conversation. You find yourself growing antsy.

The first time he speaks to you since his arrival is the day of your badge renewal.

He stands behind you in line, and you do not notice until you hear a drawn out sniff. You are surprised by the widened grey eyes you see over your shoulder. He steps back, eyes darting to the floor, but responds when you exchange greetings with him and return your own eyes to your book. Silence falls and you think that is that as the queue slowly crawls forward.

But you sense his head craning dangerously close to the side of your cheek and you mutter an exasperated _what_ before you realize he’s trying to get a look at your book. You feel bad about this, so you flip it closed for him to see. He scrunches his face, and your eyes narrow and you no longer feel bad at all.

“Let me venture a guess _,”_ you say. “House-elf folklore not to your liking?”

“No.” He shrugs his shoulders and glances coolly to the side, then back at you. “But you’d do better with _Odds and Ends: An Encyclopedia of House-Elf Traditions and Folklore_. That _author_ —” he breaks into a drawl, “you have _there_ is a _tosser_ when it comes to proper _re_ search. What’s with that face, Granger? Surprised I’ve read a few books myself?”

And all you mutter is _prat_ and he responds with the most nonchalant yet dramatic eye roll you’ve seen in years. But you don’t care, and you bury your nose into the first page you abruptly flip to because you don’t want him to see the amusement growing on your face.

The queue is long, though, and when he continues to press you further about the merits of competent examinations of historical subjects and pissant writers, you exchange bullet points of defense with him all the way to the front of the line. It takes the clerk behind the mirror yelling _Shut your gobs!_ before either of you calm down.

Upon your return to your flat, when you investigate his recommendation as well as your book’s author, you realize with chagrin that he was right. You refuse to tell him so—at least not until after you catch him in an intellectual quandary.

It’s the first of many run-ins. You discover that same week how quickly he gets bored and how much he seems to prefer you as his partner to pester.

It begins small. You notice that he’s starting to speak to you briefly in the halls. You wonder if it’s a coincidence how he often rounds the same corners as you. It’s not until it grows into a regular occurrence that your suspicions take root. Sometimes, it’s tame exchanges like _I heard about your case_ and _yes, it’s going very well._ The worst is when all you get is a hum or a grunt in response. Other times—and these are your favorites—it’s terse mentions of politics, books that caught either of your eyes, and current events. And even the occasional bickering—like _you need to do more research, Granger_ and **_I_** _need to do more research!?_ The strangest is when he says nothing and stares at your hair, and you don’t know what to do except pull at a few locks and return to your desk.

You don’t _hate_ this. You might very well enjoy it. Maybe. You haven’t decided yet.

Things change when he gets moved to a window in clear view from your desk. If this was anyone else, you would wave at each other secretly through your respective windows, only a long hallway separating you.

You jump in your chair with a start, eyes snapping to whatever bumped into the window right above your head. And your eyes narrow because it’s an enchanted, flapping paper bird with _googly eyes_. On the side, scrawled in tiny cursive lettering: _greetings from across the way—here is a bird for the nest on your head._

You scowl and mutter _how ridiculous_ as you slam your hands onto your desk to push yourself up and out of the office, snatching the squashed bird before you stomp across the hall.

“We’re supposed to be _professionals_ here!” you exclaim once in front of his desk, left hand on hip and right waving erratically in the air.

The only answer you get from the _child_ slouched in his chair is a grin hidden behind his fist and a single shoulder shrug.

The logical side of you tells you to demand he stop this nonsense. And at first, you do. When it happens two more times, you send your own paper birds flying, except _these_ ones release shrill cries only in the immediate vicinity of their targets, and they sing of his unsavory pointiness and dreadfully bland reading preferences. ( _Well, not entirely_ , you hastily add. _But expand your mind!_ ) He responds in kind with his own battalion of hybrid paper pigeon-bats using echolocation to establish their home in your hair. Instead, they crash into the bum of an appalled secretary.

You both get reprimanded together by your superiors in the hallway between both firms. No one in either office lets you live it down for at least a month, and they constantly regale the pair of you with the expressions you supposedly made under both administrators’ scrutiny. This sparks the first time you sit together at the balcony table during lunch break. The topic: your obnoxious colleagues. This eventually leads to other conversations, and you find yourself returning later and later to your desk each day.

“I read that book you mentioned. You were right,” you finally admit. He quirks a smile, and before he can respond, you casually mention a book he should read in relation to his current case, and he cocks an eyebrow knowingly, allowing the moment to pass.

A few weeks later, when you see the envelope tucked haphazardly under your desk clock, your hand hovers. Inside, it’s one of those godforsaken folded birds, but when it doesn’t squawk, you unfold it and are greeted by a familiar scrawl.

You’ve heard flitting conversations of invitations going out to employees’ mail trays, but you didn’t expect to get one. You think you probably shouldn’t go, because it’s still him of all people, and you still haven’t forgiven him for the flock of paper and the nasty yelling you were subjected to.

But your belly is burning with curiosity, and it’s for a good cause, so you decide.

It is a quarter past seven the following Friday evening when you apparate to the gates. You adjust a stray thread on your mask—a display of golden, Venetian-styled embroidery, braided trim, and an equally gold set of feathers pinned to the side with a metal rosette—before your eyes trail up the gilded iron bars looming in front you. They snake into an ornate, swirling pattern fitting for a manor entrance. On either side it is flanked by tall rows of yew hedges that border and extend into the driveway leading up to the mansion itself.

Upon your touch, the gates open for you, giving you a clear path to the manor. Your heels crunch on the gravel, and you notice peacocks roaming about past the hedges and amongst the rows of flowers. You catch yourself staring before pulling your dress folds up to climb up the steps.

Your hands are clammy as you follow in after another guest. Your heartbeat quickens as your eyes scan your surroundings, trailing behind the crowd into the next hall.

Before you reach the ballroom’s entrance, you pause in the hallway, adjusting the mask in your grip once more and smoothing your dress. You look to your left and notice you are standing next to a portrait—one with a face you recall, yet you don’t. Your eyes glance down to the name plate— _Regulus Arturus Black—_ and recognition sinks in.

A presence passes behind you, and you jerk away in surprise. You turn to make the briefest of eye contact and see that it is Narcissa, her eyebrows arching in your direction but eyes holding no malice. Your own eyes follow her as she walks through the archway.

And then you see him.

He is deep in discussion with a host of well dressed witches and wizards when his eyes dart to his approaching mother and then slide onto you. You quickly revert your eyes back to Regulus and his aloof expression, and you raise your mask’s handle, your face now covered. You continue to avoid the Malfoys’ direction when you finally stroll into the ballroom.

Several coworkers you recognize are already congregated in clusters along the far wall. You begin to wave them down, but to your surprise, you notice several of your classmates there through their masks. You realize Harry is one of them. Even with his face half concealed, it’s very obvious, and he raises his hand and beams when he catches your eye.

You go up to him and he reveals that yes, he got an invitation too, and drops the fact that he’s actually been cordial with their former school enemy for quite a while now.

“You have, too, haven’t you, Hermione?”

You look to the side. “Well, if you could call it _cordial._ I think we bother each other, more than anything. He can be quite… vexatious.”

Harry laughs, but before he says a word, you both spot Dennis. He’s taking photos again, and Harry edges away from you when the younger man makes a beeline towards him. "I’ll talk to you in a bit, okay? Much rather avoid a photo-op 'til later, but—well—you understand," he says, eyes swaying to his knees. You give him a sincere look as he disappears in Dennis'  direction.

Near the quartet’s stage, a throat is cleared, and a few announcements are made about the fundraiser by a delegate from the ministry. Narcissa Malfoy offered her home to host the charity masquerade, and she lowers the decorative stick holding her mask, bowing her head during the obligatory applause. Appeals are made to please donate, and to enjoy yourselves, and then it’s a return to the stringed music and the thrum of chatter.

Your raised wrist feels a cramping ache, so you transfigure your mask down into just the rosette feather piece, pinning it into your hair. A grumble escapes your stomach, a sign you take to make your way to the banquet table.

The table stretches from wall to wall, and thanks to the presence of gleaming multi-tiered platters and attractive arrangements, you surmise that this might be the most grandiose presentation of food you’ve encountered since Hogwarts. The selection certainly looks fancier than anything you’ve ever consumed, so you begin picking your way through the red and green section.

You suddenly hear a voice next to you and you realize who it is, shifting towards a savory platter in pretend distraction while still keeping him in view.

He’s locked in dialogue with an office mate of his that you vaguely recognize. After a few minutes of chewing, you peek to your left, eyes lingering towards the back of his head. His mask is bright silver—a fitting choice, you muse, when coupled with his stark black suit. You notice the way the ribbons are gingerly tied into a bow near the back of his head, and you wonder if he knotted it himself.  A hum escapes you, and you realize with a start you aren’t sure how long you’ve been staring at his head, and that his colleague has long left his side.

You find it difficult to talk to him; he doesn’t make it easy. He is a concrete wall if a human ever embodied one. A wall seemingly _fascinated_ with that bunch of green grapes. His lips are pressed shut, and pressing ever harder when you step next to him and the crusted lasagna bites platter nearby.

“These are quite tasty,” you offer after plucking a morsel and dropping it into your mouth, voice more garbled and full of flakes than you intended.

You chew on another, and all you can hear is the chatter and lilting string quartet behind you and your clunk of molars. You’re beginning to regret saying anything at all when you realize you’re on your fourth lasagna bite and oh no, there’s crumbs and a cheesy bit in your hair now, isn’t there? And you turn your body slightly to the right, hoping he hasn’t noticed, hoping that you can gracefully extricate yourself from your failed social niceties.

But you stop, because you can feel something pulling gently at your hair, and your breath stills while your heart sprints into a marathon. You look down—dare yourself to—and see that it’s Malfoy and he’s using his handkerchief to wipe off the red smear. You can’t help the shock on your face, eyes bulging at his lowered ones, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration at the mess of your hair. The cheese is playing hard to get, and when his eyes flick to yours, his hand stops, and slowly, so slowly, his expression slides into a mirror of yours.

“Ah,” he breathes.

And he retracts his handkerchief from your hair, arm and eyes dropping. His other hand thumbs at his pocket, and as if realizing something, he pulls his wand out in a snapping motion. “Um. Cleaning charm.” And the cheese and marinara residue is gone with the utterance of a _scourgify._ He points his wand at his cloth and repeats the spell before returning both to their designated pockets.

You are still staring at him, and realize it once he begins to rock on his heels, avoiding your gaze as he loosens his mask and places it on the table.

“Uh. Thank you. That was very—” You furrow your brow in consternation, fishing for a word and painfully aware of how long you’re taking. “Kind? Kind of you,” you finish, wincing, and much too late.

You think you can see an upward twitch at the corner of his lips, but you aren't sure. “It’s my pleasure, Granger. It would be a shame to let you gallivant around with spaghetti for hair.”

You give him a half-hearted frown, and as he breathes a soft laugh, you feel something catch. A strangeness settles in your gut when his smile doesn’t fade as he plucks a grape from the other platter and tosses it into his mouth.

Silence descends as you watch him, and you realize it’s because the song has ended. There are a few muffled remarks, and the quartet segues into a slow waltz. You’re startled into a slight jolt when his hand reaches out, palm up, towards you. Your eyes flit from hand to grey stare, all parts of your expression widening into confusion. He gestures his head to the dance floor, and your bottom lip opens into a _huh?_

“A dance, Granger. Would you like to?”

“I know what a dance is,” you retort. Your eyes don’t meet his. “Very well.” And, carefully, you grasp his hand. He escorts you to the center of the dance floor and places his other hand on your waist. You raise your left arm and falter, and when he tilts his head, you find your resolve and firmly grasp his shoulder, following him into the music after a third beat.

You both enter a relaxing glide, and you take this moment to smile. He isn’t smiling, though. It’s not an expression you can name. But it is soft, and you feel yourself falling into a choice, resting your head onto his shoulder when the dance ends.

He takes you to the courtyard, falling easily in step with you conversationally, and it feels natural, so natural, and you wonder if things would have been different in your school years in another time and place.

But you are here now, so you think _this is nice_ as you follow him through the gazebo and towards the garden.

You sit with him on the fountain’s marble bench underneath the angelic statue. Wings spread out, water pours from the vase in her embrace to the shallow bowl below, further dripping down into the lowest basin that doubles as your seat. Flowers and green vines are nestled near her feet and trail around and down her body and into the dripping waves. The fountain is surrounded by a semi-circular row of roses, and you think you can spot the tea rose bush among them.

Neither of you notice when Dennis approaches. “Mind if I take a picture?” He lifts his camera up, a smile ghosting his lips in anticipation. “I’ve been documenting moments for the event, and I think you’re in a great location!”

You answer yes before you can quell the word. You expect your seated partner to decline, but there is only silence from him.

Dennis hops backward, almost stumbling as he squeaks _blimey!_ before he angles the camera.

 Your—friend?—chooses this moment to point out a stray peacock straggling between the rose bushes behind Dennis and proclaim, “That’s Bob.”

 _“Bob?”_ you mouth incredulously right as the flash is released. You shoot him a dirty look, but he just huffs a laugh.

After shaking the photograph with several quick flicks, Dennis ambles toward you and proudly holds it out. You lean in closer, and you can sense the young man next to you leaning forward, too.

In the photograph, you are mid-word, and notice your eyes are softer than you expected.

And Draco—Draco is—you can’t quite place this expression, either. This image of him is burned into your mind, but you don’t want to take any chances. You ask Dennis for a copy of the photo. Draco asks for one too. (“I need to keep track of my accomplishments,” he remarks deviously, and you roll your eyes when he also whispers, “Bob.”)

Later that night, you pull open your bottom dresser drawer with a sharp thrust, reaching your arm in and delicately pulling a photograph from the far back. You place the two photos side by side, hands curled around your knees, and regard them in silence. A paper bird, slightly crumpled, is on your dresser, and you place it next to the photos on the floor.

You decide.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from sanctimoniav for the Dramione Winter Fic Exchange:
> 
> "Malfoy Manor Masquerade Ball. My only requirement is a description of the Manor and its gardens. The timeline is up to you but characters must be at least 17 years old." Include: Narcissa Malfoy, Regulus Black portrait.
> 
> Thanks to SH for their beta help and to Anya for organizing the event!


End file.
